The Tempest
by MinaBR
Summary: The Tempest fools the devils into defying fate. Beneath the layers of deceit, lies the true nature of the ones lured to the first father of mankind. There is a mission to be accomplished before the last raindrop falls from the sky. Expect no mercy, for hell is empty and all the devils are here.
1. The Lovers

**Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to SM. I just twist her characters.**

**AN:** _The Tempest_ was inspired by the homonym play by William Shakespeare. My aim was to distort the central idea of his play (a father fighting to restore his daughter's birth right), mix it with some Christian mythology and some Biblical quotes._.. _And_ voilá _this story was born.

Six pre-written chapters. One per day until Halloween.

Enjoy.

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**_"Hell is empty and all the devils are here." William Shakespeare, The Tempest._**

The hateful glare his light caress elicited filled him with a malevolent sense of glee. Whereas most females enjoyed the prolonged pleasure of having their bodies thoroughly explored by a skilled lover, his partner preferred a rough tumble. He was well aware that his touch repulsed her, but her spiteful nature prevented her from seeking another male to appease her voracious sexual appetite. It was a situation that suited him just fine, for he would never have allowed a man inside her body. It was a hypocritical manifestation of what could only be described as jealousy, but coherence and consistency had never been his forte.

Batting his hands away, she crawled to the other side of the bed and sat against the pillows. Little did she know that she had been nothing but a pawn in his chosen game for the night. Hell bent on proving her self-sufficiency, she went about the business of achieving completion. She was brazen in her pursuit, stoking the fire of his libido to an unbearable level. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by need, going as far as forgetting the dubious nature of their feelings for each other. Her evil smirk let him know that he had been outplayed in his own game.

Slightly irritated at her mocking display, he tried to pull away from his kneeling position, where he could almost taste her deliciously wet center, but she wasn't having any of it. Fisting his hair none too gently, she forced him to stay between her thighs. It had been a while since he had pleasured her with his tongue—although he was loath to own up to his maudlin feelings, he thought the act too intimate to be performed as detachedly as he did the rest. Feeling his hesitancy, she growled loudly and shoved him away. Despite everything, a part of him still yearned for her affection, desperate enough for her approval that he found himself willing to do the unthinkable: succumb to her demands.

She was already out of the bed and dressing when he found the courage to speak up. His pleas for her to come back were met with steely resistance, but he expected nothing less of her. Fighting the urge to lash back, he went to her. She was stiff in his arms, but soon the soft words he whispered in her ear melted her cold demeanor, turning her into a writhing ball of need. In that moment, his heart clenched within his chest, for she almost seemed to have reverted back to who she had been in the first days of their relationship: eager, lustful, loving.

The illusion wasn't bound to last. An aggressive glint entered her eyes, making his body shiver in dread. However, it was a night for surprises. Instead of delivering a punishment, she fell to her knees and engulfed his cock in the wicked warmth of her mouth. It was a treat he had been denied for far too long, ever since she had discovered his betrayal. Being a creature of pride, she had left him and only agreed to return after much groveling; and she hadn't knelt for him ever since. The Other never wanted to experiment with that particular form of sex: she was too keen on the task of growing and multiplying.

Absolute bliss was just within his grasp when she viciously bit his throbbing flesh. She licked the blood from her lips, moaning at his taste. She'd always had a penchant for inflicting pain, but never to that degree. Seeing the confusion on his face, she chuckled darkly.

"Your distorted mind actually believed that this was meant as an act of forgiveness, didn't it?"

Yes, he had naively believed that she had forgiven him at last. The Other was dead and buried, destroyed by his own hands. He had spent years bending to his current companion's every demand, indulging her every whim… Would it ever come to an end? Would his apologies ever be enough? Regardless of his damaged body being already on the mend, he was still in pain and startlingly very aroused. He wasn't in the mood for pandering to her need to berate him.

"Superiority will lead to loneliness, my dear. Without me, who will you have? Remember that you need me, but I don't need you."

The spiteful words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He didn't relish the flash of pain that contorted her features, or the sharp intake of breath that betrayed how deeply he had wounded her. Her predicament was the direct product of his thoughtless actions—had he not been governed by sexual impulses, she would still be the docile creature she had been in the beginning … There wouldn't be orders to follow or victims to slay … There wouldn't be gravel in their voices, or sharp words exchanged.

"I'm sorry, my love. I—"

The sentence would forever go incomplete, for she decided that the time for words had come to an end. Not bothering with getting to the bed, she pushed him to his back and mounted him, taking advantage of her lack of underwear and his easily opened pants. Fortunately, he was already fully healed, being able to delight in the unique sensation of being inside her. Setting a relentless rhythm, she made it clear that she was the one fucking him. It was a blatant display of dominance that had his cock twitching despite his brain's rebellion against the statement she was trying to make.

"Tell me I'm better. Tell me she never made you feel like this. Tell me I'm the only one. Make me feel special."

It was phrased as a demand, but he knew better. No amount of time could erase the memory of his infidelity; no acts of contrition could atone for the hurt he had caused her. She needed to be reassured of her precedence, of her value. Cupping her cheeck with one hand, he stilled her movements with the other by placing it on her hip. Looking into her eyes, he spoke of undying love, not as a mere way to appease her, but because it was the truth of his heart. A genuine smile graced her lips, but it was quickly replaced by sinful intent.

"Prove it. Give me what I want."

Perverse woman that she was, she had efficiently cornered him. Had the entire interlude been orchestrated in order for her to get her way? It didn't matter, for he couldn't deny her without eliciting another argument. Without another thought, he had her on her hands and knees pounding into her with wild abandon. It wasn't his preferred style, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. In no time, they were both surrendering to oblivion, too lost in their own feelings to care about anything else.

The aftermath of their encounters was never tender, varying from open hostility to a sort of stilted camaraderie. Sometimes, he was gripped by an urge to flee, to break free from the spell she wove around him. He wanted to feel loved, cherished and adored—the urge to be coddled was a byproduct of having lived with The Other for a couple of years. It was aggravating, for he had to constantly be on his guard—if she ever sensed his need, she would peg it as a weakness and use it against him.

If he had the ability to be completely honest about his feelings, he would be able to confess that their love-hate relationship satisfied his inner craving for conflict. But he wasn't an honest man—he preferred lies and subterfuge. So, he clung to the self-righteous statement that he longed for the lovey-dovey stuff generally associated with relationships. More times than not, he questioned their capacity for feeling something as provincial as love: they were much more complex than the ones surrounding them, their brains freed from limiting factors such as morals and religion.

He was brought out of his musings by the soft sound of a closing door below stairs. Seeking his companion, he found her fully dressed, standing by the window. Usually, she was quite excited by these occasions, but something about the way she held herself back from running out the door had him worried. Placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, he tried to will her into confessing what was troubling her. She didn't turn around, but he felt the sadness emanating from her, and when she spoke, she sounded so small that he had the foreign urge to comfort her.

"It's a mother and child."

Sensing that he had to tread carefully, he made a non-committal sound and let her work through her thoughts for a few moments. She never commented on the issue of motherhood, but he was aware that it wasn't for lack of interest, but rather because it was a sore spot.

"You know, sometimes I wonder why he created her instead of fixing whatever went wrong with me. Other times, I don't care—it's not like I want to burden my body with your spawns."

It was a blatant lie, but he cleverly decided not to call her on it since he was too stunned to successfully defeat her in a verbal spar. Besides, the sooner the subject was dropped, the safer he'd feel—there were too many ways in which she could corner him into revealing far more than was wise. However, her posture betrayed her unwillingness to let the past rest, for her whole body was tense in anticipation as she was preparing to ask the question he dreaded the most for the first time.

"Had I been able to bear children, would you still have gone to her?"

The question was long coming, but that didn't mean he had a good answer to offer. The lure of being able to create life had been strong, but it hadn't been all of it. The Other had been so different, so innocent … her big blue eyes constantly following him, trying to guess his every want, provide for his every need. She had been the personification of temptation, for one always wished for the opposite of what one had.

Instead of answering her, he simply brought her back against his chest and kissed her neck. It was a coward's way to avoid her question, but he wasn't above using manipulation in order to avoid conflict. A salty taste assaulted his tongue and he realized that she was quietly crying. He was old enough to have learned that some wounds could never be mended—she would always mourn for the one advantage The Other had on her.

Even he had railed against her fate: it wasn't fair that she had been imperfectly made. By trying to replace her with a new and improved model, The Voice had been incredibly unkind. Although, in all fairness, The Voice spared no efforts in torturing The Other—monthly pains and bleedings, the pain of childbirth, the finality of mortality… At least his companion didn't have to deal with all these complications—a fact for which he was eternally grateful, for he couldn't imagine the hell of seeing her in pain or the prospect of having to keep on existing without her by his side.

"Never mind. I've always known you wouldn't answer—that's why I never asked, until now."

All the belligerence had drained from her, leaving her tiny frame looking frail and vulnerable. He hated seeing her so defeated, especially because he knew how much she hated appearing helpless before him. Careless of the consequences, he scooped her up and sat her on his lap. He expected her to fight his attempt at tenderness, but she simply laid her head down on his shoulder. It was oddly satisfying being the one to soothe her pain rather than being the one inflicting it. He enjoyed their quiet interlude, knowing full well that it wasn't meant to last or even being repeated any time soon.

Eventually, she got up, leaving him feeling empty and hopeless. However, he couldn't afford the time to dwell on the state of their relationship, for he had a mission to accomplish. Sighing, he procured his clothes and dressed without delay. Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered at strangeness of his features—he couldn't identify what differentiated him from his prey. Maybe one of these days, he would take the time to play with his quarry, defying them to identify what set him apart in exchange for a little more time to live, but not today. Today was a especial event: the annihilation of a whole branch of rotten genetics; an assortment of people who truly defined the expression "beyond the pale".

"Can you handle them on your own?"

It was a silly question meant to hide the fact that she was unwilling to take part in the carnage that was about to ensue. He refrained from saying that he had always felt uncomfortable with her participation in the punishments he delivered. He did it out of a sense of responsibility; while she did it out of spite, just for the pleasure of destroying the children of The Other. He couldn't bring himself to ask her to stay out of it, not when she had faithfully followed him in every mission The Voice had thrust upon him.

Kissing her forehead, he left without delay, chuckling at the clichéd tempest roaring outside.

_The eldest of the elder shall purge the evil from amongst mankind._


	2. A Pious Man

**AN: **I did tell you it's a horror story ... Let the freak show begin.

Biblical quotes are italicized and were extracted from the King James's version.

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Pastor Carlisle would have been wary of trespassing into the outlandish mansion's grounds, had he not seen a mother and child disappearing inside just a few seconds before the light rain turned into a full blown tempest. The inclement weather caught him unawares during his daily meditation walk—as a result he found himself stranded and dependent on some strange woman's hospitality. Irritated with his lack of foresight, he knocked on the door and waited for a response that never came.

The frigid rain beating down on his pampered skin prompted Carlisle to overlook the rules of good behavior and let himself into the house. The absence of furniture, as well as the dust coating every surface of the room, intrigued him—apparently he wasn't the only one availing himself of an unwitting host's generosity. Chuckling at the absurdity of his situation, he wondered if the woman presented any danger to him. Despite the very real possibility of her being armed or even demented enough to attack him, Carlisle was confident that he could manage her, be it by force of his physical strength or the allure of the monetary compensation he could offer.

The woman didn't make an appearance and he wasn't eager to draw her attention either. Therefore, he found a sufficiently clean, sparsely furnished little sitting room, and made himself comfortable. Freed from the soggy clothes, warmed by the sheets that had been covering the sparse furniture, drinking from the bottle of vodka he always carried, Carlisle let his mind wander. As usual, thoughts of his hefty bank account brought a smile to his face. After a childhood of deprivation, due to a father who started a new family and forgot about him, Carlisle relished the comfort he now enjoyed, all courtesy of a myriad of wealthy benefactors who had been lured by his undeniable charisma, angelic beauty and softly spoken words.

However, it wasn't all about the money. Being the founder and self-entitled prophet of a new religion, Carlisle enjoyed the status of a demigod: infallible, untouchable, unquestionable. And not even a soul as mercenary as Carlisle's could deny the attraction of finally being the subject of unrestrained love and fanatical admiration: his congregation would blindly follow his steps, wherever he chose to lead them. The faith they had in him would be humbling for a better man, but for Carlisle it meant absolute power and he had no compunction at using it for his own selfish goals, for he had no illusions as to his true nature.

Unlike many other religious leaders, Carlisle wasn't under the impression that a higher being actually talked to him: he was a scammer and proud of it. The idea of deceiving educated people excited him immensely, for it was a proof that, despite society's perception, he was more intelligent than any pompous Ivy League graduate. The exhilaration of luring the naïve, outwitting the supposedly smart and keeping up his sanctimonious façade, made him feel greater than any god, more wicked than any fallen angel.

_"Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall."_

The smooth, cultured voice startled Carlisle out of his reverie, making his fingers tremble and his beloved bottle roll out of sight. Looking for the man to whom the voice belonged, Carlisle found him standing by a tall window, his silhouette outlined by the soft light provided by lightning. An unexpected chill descended upon Carlisle, consuming his mind with a foreboding feeling of dread. It wasn't like him to fear the unexpected, however, there was something quite unusual about the man who had spoken to him, an otherworldly quality that had Carlisle struggling to maintain his composure.

_"The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion."_

The condescension in the man's tone was unmistakable, serving to goad Carlisle into accepting the issued challenge. Forcing his tense muscles to relax, Carlisle studied the man who had obviously recognized him, for why else would anyone quote the Bible these days? Deciding on the side of caution until he could figure out the man's intentions, Carlisle made a concerted effort at staying calm and keep the man talking.

"I take it you are fond of Proverbs?"

"Not fond, merely knowledgeable."

"It's very rare to meet a young man such as yourself who takes the time to study the words of our Lord."

"Do you believe in God, good Pastor?"

So the man had recognized him. Suddenly, Carlisle felt more at ease, for the man probably bore some resentment towards religion or perhaps, more specifically, towards Carlisle himself. Had the man been one of the many Carlisle had unscrupulously stripped away from material possessions? Or maybe he had discovered the true destination of the money donated to Carlisle's church? Either way, the man obviously disliked Carlisle, for whatever reason. The best course of action would be to put on a show of piety and charm the man out of his grudge. It wouldn't be hard—Carlisle had done it a million times before.

"Of course, I believe in God. Don't you?"

The calm soothing voice in which Carlisle spoke should have been placating, but the man seemed to be impervious to its intended purpose, for he answered too quickly in harshly spoken words.

"Believing implies accepting the truth of an affirmation without verifiable proof of its veracity. For me that's an impossibility."

_"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding."_

"Another quote from Proverbs. How you impress me, good Pastor."

"It's my job as a man of God to know all of his teachings."

"Only to know all of his teachings? Not to live by them?"

Indignation flared within Carlisle's chest. The implications of the stranger's seemly innocent question weren't lost on Carlisle—apparently the man's grudge against him ran deeper than he had originally guessed, for it was aimed not at Carlisle's public persona, but instead at his personal life. It was imperative that Carlisle discovered what the man had learned—the possibilities were infinite.

_"Lying lips are abomination to the Lord."_

The enigmatic statement did little to help Carlisle understand the man's frame of mind. There were so many lies he had told over the years … The various instances in which he had been dishonest flittered through his mind: the day he lied to the police and got away with murdering his mother; the many years he spent convincing his congregation of his divine calling; the way he betrayed his wife with women who believed his false declarations of love; the murder of the few people who had suspected of his schemes … but most importantly, how everybody had fallen for the illusion he projected, without realizing that a psychopath lurked underneath.

_"He hath uncovered his sister's nakedness; he shall bear his iniquity."_

The man couldn't have been more clear had he directly addressed the issue. Was this what the man was about? Was he the fruit of Carlisle's loins? The one conceived in sin? At that thought he remembered how sweet it had felt to soil his sister in their father's eyes—his own brand of revenge upon the man who had abandoned him. The revulsion, the anger, the broken heart … the old man never knew that his little girl had been an unwitting pawn in Carlisle's game: she never knew they were family, for daddy dearest never bothered telling her about his previous marriage.

The silly girl would never know that daddy loved her so much that he was willingly to overlook her incursion into the world of prostitution. However, lying with her brother was a whole other thing, and their father simply couldn't bear Carlisle's taunts: he killed himself. He had the pleasure of delivering the news to his grieving half-brother, going as far as putting on a pretense of sharing the same sentiment. Destroying his sister, mocking his brother, damning his overly religious father to hell … Carlisle's plan had been pure perfection and he was damn proud of it.

"Quoting from Leviticus? I thought Proverbs was our thing."

Undaunted by Carlisle's attempt at deflection, the man approached him slowly. Only a coffee table stood between them and Carlisle fancied that he could almost see the man's too perfect features contorting into a grimace of distaste as he continued speaking as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"A thief, a liar, a false prophet, a murderer, an adulterer, an incestuous brother … Is there any rule you left unbroken?"

Carlisle wondered if he could possibly escape the unusual encounter unscathed. The veil of denial fell and Carlisle was finally able to recognize the man for what he truly was: a demon, an avenging angel, a deliverer of divine justice sent to punish him for the many sins he had committed throughout his life. According to religion, his only alternative was to repent from his sins and beg for forgiveness, but the truth was he regretted nothing.

Smiling in dark satisfaction, Carlisle reached for his discarded clothes, seeking for the little knife he always carried. Taking control over his own death was the only victory he could possibly expect given his predicament, and he relished it until his very last breath.

Not for one moment did Carlisle suspect that he had simply played right into the man's plans.

_"Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, prophet that prophesy the deceit of thy own heart, thee that wrought much wickedness in the sight of the Lord: the worm is spread under thee, and the worms cover thee. Thy name shall rot, thy soul shall be turned into hell. "_


	3. An Entrancing Woman

The soft click of her stilettos on the marble floor echoed eerily around the empty hall. Shivering with cold, she sought comfort in the fact that she had at least found shelter from the relentless rain, however inappropriate it might be. Despite being an impressive construction, the rooms were almost bare and there was no electricity. Had the house been up a hill, Alice would have sworn she'd just walked into the Addams' family manor.

Lightning cut through the sky, illuminating the stairwell. Shrugging, she decided to explore the second floor—maybe she could find a furnished room, perhaps even a bed to sleep in. The electrical storm raged outside, allowing her to see a door standing wide open right at the end of the hallway. Approaching it warily, Alice peeked inside. It was a beautifully decorated bedroom that appeared to be clean enough. As she walked inside, Alice was surprised to discover that it was also surprisingly warm.

Being a person who believed that good luck was her due, she never stopped to question if maybe the house was inhabited after all. Taking ownership over the place, she shed her soaked clothes and lay on the bed, sighing in pleasure at the feeling of the soft sheets against her skin. Sleep came easily—not once did her mind wander to the events that had led her there. Instead, her dreams were of the new life she was about to start as soon as she could get someone to fix whatever was wrong with her brand new Ferrari.

The sound of footsteps coming inside the room tore Alice away from her dreams. She wasn't worried, for she didn't believe in the supernatural, she only hoped that it wasn't a woman, for she was much more inclined to dealing with men. As usual, Alice got her way, and from what she could see, the man was startlingly handsome. Awareness washed over her, like it always did whenever confronted with a desirable specimen.

"Umm, hello. May I ask who you might be?"

Impressed by his gentlemanly question, she was amused by his shy demeanor: the shuffling of his feet, the way he tried to keep his eyes from her barely concealed form, the nervousness he couldn't keep from his voice. He was well dressed, but he held a bottle of whatever it was that poor people liked to drink, leading her to the conclusion that he was most likely the grounds keeper. Deciding that, since she was stranded for the night, there would be no harm in indulging in a little fun with the handsome stranger, Alice let the sheet drop, exposing her ample breasts.

"Does it matter?" Purring the question, Alice ran one finger down her throat, descending to her collarbones, letting it circle her erect nipple. There was no mistaking the carnality of the smile she directed at him—even in the semi-darkness of the room, the invitation was clear. Desire coursed through her veins, permeating the air with the unmistakable scent of a female in heat.

"They are beautiful, but you paid a high price for them, didn't you, Alice?"

Startled out of the lustful haze that had been clouding her brain, Alice coldly assessed the situation. He obviously knew her name, which could only mean that he recognized her from the news, since her purse with all her documents were under the pillow she'd been sleeping on. Her notoriety was mildly irritating, especially because it meant that instead of fucking the beautiful stranger, she'd have to kill him. Striving for innocence, she went for a diversion technique meant to afford her the time to reach for the pistol hidden in her purse.

"Forgive me, do we know each other? If so, I'm so sorry, but you see the dark doesn't help! I can barely see your face and … "

Being an excellent markswoman, she hit the target on her first attempt. The shot should have been lethal, however the man still stood. Firing again, she felt desperation creeping in, for there was no reasonable explanation as to why the man still lived. She'd emptied the cylinder of the gun and still the man hadn't been brought down. Stunned and bewildered, she lowered her arm. The storm had relented, the absence of light and noise adding to the ominous atmosphere permeating the room.

"Are you afraid now?"

Flinging her body out of the bed, she tried to escape the abnormal stranger, but to no avail. Moving faster than humanly possible, he had her on the bed, pinned underneath him. Her situation was dire, but Alice wasn't about to give in so easily. He might not be human, but he surely was male and she knew how to lure males, how to manipulate them, how to get the best of them. Smiling saucily, she hooked her leg over his hips, rubbing her pussy against his cock.

"Such a pathetic attempt at seduction. Did you truly believe it would work, my dear?"

Unfortunately, Alice did. How could he have resisted her blatant offer? From the tender age of sixteen, when she had seduced her foster father, no man had ever been able to walk away from the sight of her naked body open in invitation. She had used it shamelessly as a ticket out of poverty, fucking her way to the grand prize: marriage to an exceedingly wealthy man. Of course, he'd been married at the time, but she had no compunction in becoming his lover and eventually demanding marriage.

"Once a whore, always a whore."

Insulted beyond belief, she spat at his face, trying with all her might to get free from his restraining hands. A slap to her face halted her frenetic efforts, bringing her eyes back to the thing threateningly looming over her. Her devious mind was sorting through ways to escape him, when his dark laugh interrupted her train of thought.

"You can't handle me, little one. There is no escape. Today you will face the consequences of your actions."

Smiling inwardly, Alice decided which angle she would explore. Obviously, she was facing some kind of avenging angel, bent on making her pay for her crimes. The best way to cool down his temper was to play the role of a poor girl victimized by the men in her life. Her latest crime might be passed as self-defense against an abusive husband. Alice was such a good actress that she was able to even summon a few tears.

"Don't bother, my dear. You see, I know the truth about you."

The finality of his statement let Alice know that she had no chance of surviving the encounter. Afraid, but still defiant, she raised her chin and held his gaze.

"What do you want?"

Curiously fascinated by her show of bravery, he studied her for a few seconds before voicing the one thing to which he didn't have a definite answer.

"Why did you do it?"

"He caught me cheating on him and he wanted a divorce. So, I killed him and quartered his body, but not before setting up an account overseas and planning my escape route."

Although appreciative of her honest response, he moved his hands to her head and broke her neck, but not before she screamed at the top of her lungs. Her last thoughts weren't of panic or contrition—even when confronted with death, she wasn't able to regret her sins. She could only think of the money she wouldn't get to enjoy. Slightly surprised by her single minded pursuit of material riches, he shook his head against his own naïveté. What else could he expect from the child of a serial rapist?

_Disciple of Jezebel, thou shall never again steer good men way from the path of justice._


	4. A Man of Honor

Pulling his car to the side of the road, Jasper damned the unexpected delay in his journey. As it stood, there was a good chance he was going to be late for the ceremony, perhaps he wouldn't even be granted entrance to the East Room. The culmination of his military career lost due to a combination of poor eyesight and bad weather … Shaking his head against the negative thoughts tormenting his mind, he chose to concentrate on the medal waiting for him in Washington. He could almost visualize the glorious moment when the President would put the blue ribbon around his neck; almost feel the weight of the eagle and the star sitting on his chest; almost bask in the envious looks of his peers_—_very few men could boast the distinction of being the recipient of a Medal of Honor.

Brought out of his reverie by the unmistakable sound of a dead car battery, Jasper observed with growing curiosity the wisp of a woman glaring daggers at her unmoving vehicle on the other side of the road. The dark color of his car in addition to the falling rain concealed him from her view—he was free to admire her beauty. Somehow she reminded him of his younger sister, the black sheep of the family who had ran away from home. The last he'd heard of her, she had become a whore. Chuckling he contemplated the irony of it: his half brother was a man of God and his other sibling was a lady of the night.

After a few minutes of failed attempts to start the engine, the woman braved the rain and headed towards a place where Jasper could see only darkness. Irritated at his limited vision, he wondered if the woman would be safe alone in the dark. Trying to calm himself, he reasoned that perhaps there was a house or a service station he couldn't see where she might get the help she obviously needed. Even so, he was a bit worried for her safety_—_under the cloak of darkness, even the best of men can be tempted to unspeakable acts.

For a few seconds he debated whether or not he should go after her. Gentlemanly concern had him almost out of the car before the tug of comfort beckoned him to stay where it was safe and dry. She was a grown woman after all, let her deal with the consequences of her actions. Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep. One of the benefits of having served in Afghanistan was that he had become accustomed to sleeping through almost anything, at the same time keeping enough awareness to recognize any potential threats.

Unfortunately, a loud scream of undeniable terror yanked him away from the pleasant dreams he had been enjoying. Apparently, the silly woman had landed herself in a predicament and now he had to intervene. Cursing the female population and the notion that men should protect them, he stepped into the chilling rain. Walking slowly, he felt a sliver of fear trickle down his spine when he spotted the imposing building that lay ahead. Self-preservation warred with gallantry, but in the end pride was the deciding factor_—_he was a war hero, after all.

Stiffening his spine, he burst into the house determined to quickly deal with the situation. However, he was met with the overwhelming silence that preluded a battle. Used to life and death situations, he attuned his senses to his surroundings and tensed his muscles, ready to take down the enemy whoever he might be. Reaching for his gun he waited patiently for any sound that gave away the enemy's location. He wasn't about to ask questions_—_that was for silly girls in horror movies—he preferred to shoot first, ask questions later. Little did he know that he was about to encounter an adversary who couldn't be defeated with bullets.

But ignorance was bliss and when he heard the loud noise of the heavy door being shut, he saw the outline of his target, and shot mercilessly at him. Impressively, the man still stood. Startled, Jasper recharged his gun and fired it again. But no amount of bullets seemed able to bring the immobile form down, leading Jasper to question the nature of what he had seen and heard. Maybe the wind had slammed the door shut and the form he had aimed at was nothing more than a statue. In any case, he started to retrace his steps to the entrance_—_whatever terrible destiny had fallen upon the woman, he was most likely too late to help her now. Besides, although he was loath to admit it, he had a prickling feeling of unease about the whole situation.

"Going somewhere, Major?"

Unable to pinpoint the direction from which the voice had originated, Jasper forced himself to collect his scattered wits and make the man talk a bit more. He had very few bullets left, therefore he couldn't afford the luxury of shooting at will, hoping to somehow hit the target. Precision was the name of the game, the best weapon was keeping focused. Feeling sure of himself due to his military training, Jasper took his time answering_—_a maneuver meant to disconcert and cower the enemy while regaining control over the situation.

"Ah, good Major, your reasoning is flawed."

At the enigmatic comment, Jasper fought against the sense of doom that unexpectedly took over the logical side of his brain. Telling himself that the fright he felt was an overreaction, he had reigned in his capricious body when a terrible realization came to the forefront of his mind. Although fighting desperately to rationalize it, he came up short. How could the man know? He was in civilian clothes, far away from home, his photo hadn't been made public …

"Ah, I see you're finally asking the right questions."

"You read minds."

Trembling in terror, Jasper could barely believe his own words. But it was the only explanation for the man's remarks. How was it possible? Was he even a man? What was going on? Answers weren't needed, for all Jasper wanted was to escape the house and try his luck driving through the rain. But how could he plan an escape route while the being read his mind?

"You can't, Major. You're completely at my mercy. Call it poetic justice, if you please."

"I demand an explanation."

Although he had tried to infuse his voice with authority, it came out sounding pathetically weak giving away the fear constricting his lungs and quickening his heart. Ignoring his question, the creature kept on talking to itself in a quiet, steady voice.

"In the hidden depths of a human's psyche lies the truth about his character. There is true beauty in being able to peel away the layers of deceit and contemplating the naked reality of one's character. But within the gift hides the curse of being forced to watch the extent of human corruption. Evolution is a ruse meant to convey a false sense of security that lulls society into blind compliance. Confident in their moral values they refuse to believe the depravity in which their neighbors indulge. Preying on their peers' naiveté, predators bask in all kinds of perverted delights. Do you know what I mean, Major?"

Taking advantage of the long rant, Jasper had stealthily inched away from his would be captor, eyeing the tall windows that dominated the wall to his right. He had almost reached the closest one when the creature suddenly stood between him and freedom. It was the first time he actually looked at his enemy and the sight had him fighting the urge to scream. Despite its young appearance, its preternatural beauty spoke of ancient knowledge, reinforcing the idea that it couldn't be beaten or deceived. Defeat was inevitable, so Jasper decided to surrender with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Don't worry, Major, you will be allowed to retain as much dignity as your victims were."

Blanching, Jasper recalled his time at war. All the times he had killed without question or emotion… How many had it been? Concentrating hard, Jasper shied away from the feat of bravery that had been rewarded with the medal he was sure he would never have the chance to receive. A sudden blow to his legs, brought Jasper to his knees. Gasping in pain, he didn't have the strength to fight off the hand forcing his head to an unnatural angle. The eyes of the creature bore into his and Jasper understood that it knew the truth of his past.

"That's right, Major. Raping defeated enemies to ascertain your superiority and later humiliating them by letting their peers know of their shame. Many killed themselves, others were stoned to death, some still live, but the emotional scars keep them from living a happy fulfilling life. You know what that makes you? A serial rapist. Had it happened in the U.S. you'd be called a sex offender.

"But that's not all, is it Major? How about the lie that secured you a Medal of Honor? The local population's riot wasn't an act of terrorism like you claimed, but a direct consequence of the cruelty you had instigated. Deserting your men, you never took part in the battle, however a young sergeant, who closely resembled you, did. The surprise night attack was providential, wasn't it? Taking advantage of the cloak of darkness and the men's confusion you claimed as yours the feats of bravery of one of the very few good men who died that night."

Jasper had never been a man of faith, but at that moment he attempted to pray like his mother had taught him long ago. He asked for a quick swift death, for an escape, for anything that saved him from the promise of retribution simmering in the creature's eyes.

"There is no point, you know. Salvation is for the deserving and you are not one of them. The one you ask for help was the judge and the jury, I'm merely the executioner."

The last thread of hope was broken. Tears streamed down his face, a relentless question swirled around his mind, but he couldn't find the courage to voice it, for he was afraid of the answer.

"My son, the time for fear is long gone. I won't do to you anything that you haven't done to others countless times. Fear not, maybe you can even feel a little pleasure during our time together."

To Jasper's everlasting mortification, the first few times the creature penetrated him were followed by blinding explosions of rapture. Only later the pleasure turned into pain, blood and whimpers of despair pouring out of his body, but the creature wouldn't be deterred. It sadistically raped Jasper for hours, until he took his very last breath.

_Wound for wound thy sins must be avenged._


	5. A Loving Mother

**AN: **This is the most shocking thing I've ever written. First, let me tell you that this was born out of a lot of research on the subject. I tried to make the emotions as real as I could, that's why I feel that some of you will be deeply disturbed.

Please, understand that I'm merely bringing forth a reality not many even think about. I hate it. I don't condone it.

**This chapter contains non-consensual incest. Read at your own discretion. **

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Stoically enduring the gentle brush of the towel against her skin, Rosalie closed her eyes in shame. Revulsion and desire coursed through her veins while she struggled to maintain a calm façade. The violence she could easily endure, for it brought forth nothing but the hate always simmering in the back of her mind; however tenderness was her undoing, for it gave the illusion of being loved. And there was nothing she craved more than her mother's affection, the sweet illusion of being important to somebody … anybody.

For those fleeting, rare moments of false warmth, Rosalie was willing to sacrifice the remnants of her soul, the few shreds of dignity and self-worth she had managed to retain. Those were the only times she didn't fight her mother's advances, for she had talked herself into believing that they were an expression of love instead of another form of sadism. The pleasure she felt under her mother's sedate manipulation was always followed by self-hatred and tears, for she couldn't hide from how unnatural their relationship felt.

The most alarming fact was that the need to please ran strong in her veins, even though the rational part of her mind felt nothing but contempt for her subservience. She gave whatever was asked of her, be it her compliance or her screams of pain—anything to placate her mother, anything to make her want to keep Rosalie by her side. Having no friends, no social skills and no way to provide for herself, Rosalie felt trapped, totally dependent on the charity of her torturer.

Fear drove Rosalie to elaborate a thousand excuses for the abuse she endured—forgiving her mother was the only way to survive her unbearable reality. Constantly reminded that she was an unplanned child whose father failed to acknowledge, Rosalie felt directly responsible for her mother's descent into prostitution. To her mind, had her mother not been a prostitute, she wouldn't have been the recipient of innumerable acts of violence, therefore she wouldn't feel the need to take out her frustrations on Rosalie. Neither would her mother hate men, consequently she wouldn't have felt the compulsion to seek sexual satisfaction from women, more specifically her own daughter.

Despite all her reasoning, deep inside her heart Rosalie questioned if there wasn't something intrinsically wrong with her mother. If so, she dreaded the possibility of having inherited the same sickness that assailed her mother. Those were the times desperation hit hard, making her mind turn to a world of dreams where a knight in shinning armor came to her rescue, taking away the pain and the doubts. Hopelessness always followed that image, for Rosalie feared that her preferences tended to girls. After all, didn't she sometimes welcome her mother's touch?

All the divagations swirling through her head were brought to a halt by the strong hands of her mother, forcing Rosalie to her knees. She obliged her mother's request, pouring all her gratitude into the act she performed. Regardless of all her flaws, her mother hadn't let her pimp have his way with Rosalie preferring to gather their few belongings and escape the city without delay. They'd been on the road for a while when they found the abandoned house they were currently in and made it their temporary home. Her mother's efforts in protecting her made Rosalie feel truly and unconditionally loved for the first time in her life.

From the corner of her eye, she saw someone step out of the shadows. The silhouette resembled that of a human male, but there was no mistaking the incongruity of his fluid movements, the inexplicable silence of his steps. A flash of lightning revealed his face to Rosalie's startled eyes—the fury contorting his features left no doubt as to the nature of the creature slowly approaching her. It was the thing of nightmares, an avenging angel bent on cleansing the world from wicked sinners … like herself. Feeling desperate and impure, she scrambled away from her mother, from the man, to the corner of the room, while praying for invisibility, for forgiveness.

"You are wrong in so many instances, dear girl."

Confused by the endearment, Rosalie could only stare at the unearthly good looking man who now stood right before her. Scared and unsure, her eyes franticly scanned the room for her mother, but the dark stormy night made it impossible for Rosalie to find her. Huddling in the corner, she prayed for a swift, painless death.

"Don't worry, Rosalie. You are not dying today."

For some unfathomable reason, she believed his words, but she wasn't appeased. A nagging suspicion on the back of her mind became a horrifying thought that had her sobbing in fear. Before she could stop herself, the thought materialized into a question. Dreading the answer, she lowered her eyes, survival instinct taking over. She had learned long ago to accept her fate, display obedience and hope for the best.

"No, my love, I don't want that from you."

"You are not going to kill me and do not want me to do stuff for you. Then, why are you here?"

Studying the confused thirteen year old girl, Edward felt a tug at his heart. For the first time in centuries, he turned his eyes to the place his maker allegedly inhabited and said a thankful prayer for the chain of events which resulted in altering the sequence of the punishments he was meant to enforce. The early appearance of the man who should have been his second encounter; the distance between the back room mother and child occupied and the front rooms where he'd had his first appointments; the shower that coupled with the thunderstorm muffled the screams of his kills; they were all a gift from Heaven, for the girl had been spared from having to endure the trauma of witnessing such gruesome scenes.

"Are you going to hurt my mother? Please, don't! I need her … I have no one else!"

He noticed how genuinely afraid she was for her mother. Rosalie was such a helpless creature, hysterically clinging to the one constant in her miserable life. That was the ugliest side of this kind of abuse: how the victim believed herself incapable of existing without the perpetrator. The poor little thing obviously wouldn't be able to survive alone. Against his better judgment, he felt the need to get involved—he didn't want her to be victimized by another predator. She was an innocent, precious child who deserved a new beginning. And he would make sure she got one.

"Have no fear, dear girl: from now on you are under my care. Just close your eyes and cover your ears. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

Before obeying his orders, she gazed at him with tentative trust and endless hope. It humbled him. Paternal love filled his heart like it hadn't since the days before his first children had grown up to be such a disappointment. For so many years he had been immersed in the worst of mankind, so much he had forgotten some people are worth saving. A spark of hope burned in his soul and suddenly he didn't care for torturing the uncaring woman who broke such a precious child. He was eager to be done with his task and come back to the girl he intended to help.

An undercurrent of malefic intent tainted his brain with the hateful emotions of the girl's mother. She thought only of escaping, frantically struggling to open the locked front door. The little regard she showed for her daughter's safety in the presence of the menace he presented only fueled his anger. But what else he could have expected from a monster like Esme? Maybe he had, over the years, somehow assimilated the human myth about the unconditionality of a mother's love.

However, now was not the time to lose himself in the matter of the influences of human ideas in his thought process, for Esme had finally noticed his presence. The brightness of her eyes would have been deemed madness by any other observer, but Edward could see inside her head and there was no mistaking the lucidity of her filthy head.

"Going somewhere?"

Startled, Esme turned to him with a sneer on her unimpressive face. Predictably, she was planning on bartering her favors in exchange for her liberty. She also considered offering the use of her daughter's body and that gave him pause. Sifting through her memories, he saw the day Esme's pimp had tried to call social services, for even a man as hardened as he was revolted by her treatment of Rosalie. She wasn't on the run to protect her daughter—she was trying to evade the police after killing the man who had threatened to take away her favorite toy.

Cocking his head, he analyzed his findings. The woman before him had systematically tortured and abused her own child: every step, every gesture had been planned to further shatter and hurt Rosalie. Even Esme's sparse demonstrations of affection were given for the only reason of watching her daughter's hurt after the attentions were withdrawn. The unwanted pregnancy was part of the reason for Esme's hatred for Rosalie, but it couldn't account for the bulk of it.

Looking deeper, underneath the lies Esme told herself, he found a deep rooted hatred for everything that was beautiful. In her simplistic mind, all the misfortune she had experienced in life boiled down to being ugly. Had she been beautiful she would have been loved by her parents and she wouldn't have been forced to run away from her troubled home. Consequently, she would have been spared from the experience of having to whore for a living and Rosalie's father wouldn't have been ashamed of her—Carlisle would have left his wife and married her … but she was a whore and he was a Pastor who had an image to maintain. Esme never realized that her most cherished dream would never come to pass, for her daughter was the fruit of incest between half siblings.

Weary of digging inside the putrid well of her psyche, he didn't wait for an answer. Eyeing her chenille rayon attire he grinned in perverse satisfaction, for the highly flammable fabrics worked perfectly for what he had in mind. Producing a lighter, he made good use of the bottle of vodka the good Pastor had lost. He set Esme's body on fire, watching with dispassionate interest the way she writhed in pain. Her screams were a beautiful symphony of vindication and he almost felt lighthearted by the scene he witnessed. So much that he was oblivious to the danger approaching his new protégé.

The smell of burning flesh filled Rosalie's nostrils, making her eyes open against her own will. It was an ancient reflection, looking for the source of a strange stimulus. Finding nothing and remembering the strange man's orders, she was about to close them when a woman suddenly materialized in her field of vision. The woman exuded danger, despite being undeniably beautiful. She somehow resembled the man Rosalie had met and she wondered if the woman would be as forgiving as the man had been.

A smile graced the woman's lips when she clamped her hand on Rosalie's mouth. She tried to struggle against the hold but the woman was surprisingly strong, effortlessly dragging Rosalie out of the room and down the stairs. Rosalie didn't understand the reason why women never seemed to like her, but at that moment she resented it more than never, for it was about to cost Rosalie her life.

Brought out of his reverie by the girl's frantic state of mind, Edward could barely believe the sight that greeted his eyes. It took him less than a second to guess his lover's malignant intent, but it was already too late. Her sure, steady hand slit the girl's throat open before he could even move.

Rosalie's final conscious moment was spent lamenting how even her knight in shining armor had failed her.

_The profaned mother, burnt by fire; the daughter brought forth in iniquity, far more precious than rubies, slaughtered by jealousy cruel as the grave._


	6. The Screech Owl

**Happy Halloween!**

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Cradling the lifeless body of the young girl, he was gripped by unfamiliar feelings of loss and sorrow. His mind was a whirlwind of interrupted thoughts, vague impressions and unaccountable rage. A howl of pain erupted from deep within his chest, alerting her to his strange mood. Instead of cowering back in shame like he expected, she laughed bitterly, her face contorting into an expression of pain and hate. Any other day he would have tried to guess her game, but not that day.

"Why, Lilith?"

His voice came out raspy, tinged with the grief he couldn't help but feeling. Mourning the death of one of his children was a novelty, but he didn't bother analyzing his motives_—_his emotions were too raw and his brain too frantic. For a long time she just stared at him, the silence growing thick and meaningful, until the point he thought she wouldn't answer him. But suddenly her eyes were alight with piercing intensity, the derision in her mouth alerting him to the sharp words she was about to spill.

"Lilith is a whore who mated an Archangel; she is a succubus who attacks unsuspecting men, she is a cunt who had the audacity to demand equality … She is the unlovable stepmother of mankind, the one nobody understands or loves … No, I'm not Lilith, I'm Bella like the girl from the book … sweet, loving, giving. And you are Edward: faithful and mine, only mine. Have your forgotten our plans, my dear?"

The endearment sounded wrong coming from her lips which only raised the anger bubbling inside of him. However, he had been dealing with her for a long, long time_—_if he wanted answers, he would have to be as cold and sarcastic as she was. Not for the first time he wished they could drop the pretenses and have a real conversation, but it wasn't meant to be_—_the day he had chosen to be with The Other was the day he had forever altered the dynamic of their relationship.

"I apologize, my love. But, Bella, honey, the question still stands. Why did you slay the girl?"

"Why, Edward… It almost seems like you care!"

Her attempt at discomposing him fell flat. Yes, he finally understood her game: she wanted a confession, of what he wasn't sure.

"You know as well as I do that her name wasn't in the message. I'm merely curious, my love."

"Tell me, Edward, what has your emotions in such a tangle? Is it really this worthless piece of meat in your arms or is it the memories of the one with whom she bears an uncanny resemblance?"

Understanding washed over him. Up until that moment, he couldn't understand the source of his unparalleled reaction, for it wasn't the first time she took a life just for the fun of it. It had never truly bothered him, for he knew his children well enough to accept that sooner or later they would become monsters who deserved to be exterminated. However, she was on a roll and didn't allow him the time to appease her insecurities.

"The big blue eyes, the blond hair, the sickening sweet voice … Is little Adam pinning for his long lost Eve?"

The forbidden name slipped from her tongue awash in derision, for it was the first time she'd ever said it—even he had become accustomed to referring to Eve as "The Other". Contrite, he felt the urge to embrace her, however the sarcasm of her statement reminded him that comfort and reassurance would do nothing to stop her temper tantrum. Feeling lighthearted and wicked, he simply couldn't resist the urge to taunt her.

"Jealous, my love? Afraid you will lose me again? I've got to confess that your possessive streak is slightly annoying, but extremely hot."

Her reaction didn't disappoint. Pouncing on him like a beast stalking its prey, she tackled him to the floor, tearing his flesh open with her sharpened nails. Hissing in pain and sexual hunger, he flipped her over and tried to overpower her. But she wasn't a fragile little being, as a matter of fact she was built with the same physical resilience as himself which made for very interesting fights/foreplay.

Despite her attempt to conceal it, he could see that she was aroused, painfully so. Yes, he loved angry sex. Her feistiness was a major turn on… Most likely, he would end up getting pegged_—_she loved to ascertain her dominance by fucking him. Not that he minded… at all. They were equals, the shared gift of immortality bounding their beings for eternity. Love and hate were human emotions_—_ between them simmered feelings that couldn't be understood by mere humans.

He was so lost in sensation that he almost missed the sound alerting him to an incoming message. Groaning in dismay, he would have dismissed if she hadn't moved away from him. The minx laughed heartily at his obvious discomfort while sashaying out of the room. While deeply disgruntled by the rude interruption, he knew from experience that there was no point in trying to ignore the message. So did Bella, thus her hasty retreat. Running his hands through his hair, he pulled out his cell phone and read the details of the next mission.

How times had changed. At first, The Voice had spoken directly to him, unashamedly directing and urging him to discipline his children. Then came the stone engraved messages, the papyrus, the letters, now text messages … What would be next, he wondered.

Although The Voice had never specifically told him how to punish his children, he had learned through trial and error that humanity didn't respond to gentleness. His heavy, unforgiving hand had tortured many into compliance after Bella had suggested that some humans were beyond repair. He had wholeheartedly agreed—that's when the killing sprees started. As time passed, humanity degenerated into something he could hardly recognize, turning his heart to cold stone. Nobody could be saved, all should perish.

Even the girl for whom he had cried didn't deserve the benefit of the doubt_—_a good percentage of molested children repeated the same behavior as adults. Even if she escaped the cycle of abuse, she would be doomed to bear the scars of being molested for the rest of her life … A life of being hated and envied by other women … Most likely, she would end up indulging in self-destructive behaviors … And it was a well known fact that suicide, even those perpetrated by slow degrees was a vile sin—it was murder, all the same. No, the girl wasn't on the list, but sooner or later she would deserve to be.

That was the most pathetic trait his children had inherited from their mother: the propensity to always bring doom upon themselves.

_Oh, poor banished children of Eve pray ye never meet thy father: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil._


End file.
